


the swing of things

by meridies



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Dynamics, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27891025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridies/pseuds/meridies
Summary: Out of all the people to haunt— why him? Why him? Why not Tommy, why not Phil, why not Fundy? Why not someone else— someone who was crueler to him, someone who was nicer, someone who was more than just indifferent? Why did Techno get the short end of the stick, both in exile and in family?or, Wilbur sticks with his twin brother after his death, and Techno struggles to move on.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 96
Kudos: 1373





	the swing of things

**Author's Note:**

> in this fic, wilbur talks in italics, since he's a ghost! so anything in italics is his dialogue. 
> 
> mild content warning: references to how wilbur died, but nothing graphic <3 enjoy!

His hair weighs less now. 

Techno sweeps it up, as emotionless as he knows how. It dangles around his chin, jagged and shorn. Nothing like the neat plait Wilbur always helped to keep it in. 

_ Why?  _

“Go away,” Techno says. He can’t deal with voices in his head today. 

_ I liked your long hair. _

“Go away,” Techno says, louder, and tries to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. But no matter which direction he turns, it always seems like the voice is in the opposite one. 

He feels a hand come up to his face, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The fingers are soft, but when Techno reaches out, his hand meets nothing. There’s nothing there. 

_ Pretty,  _ the ghost of Wilbur whispers. 

Techno grits his teeth. 

Out of all the people to haunt— why him? Why him? Why not Tommy, why not Phil, why not Fundy? Why not someone else— someone who was crueler to him, someone who was nicer, someone who was more than just indifferent? Why did Techno get the short end of the stick, both in exile and in family? 

“It was getting long,” Techno says, which isn’t an answer at all.

He remembers feeling Wilbur’s hands in it, Untangling it, strand by strand, learning how to braid it back up. Techno hasn’t cut his hair in so many years. 

It became unruly. That was the reason. He’s always been terrible at taking care of himself; what difference is this? 

_ I liked it when it was longer,  _ Wilbur says again. 

The mirror haunts Techno these days. He looks in it and doesn’t recognize who looks back. 

He raises a hand to touch his shorn hair. It’ll be harder to tie back, now that it’s only chin-length. And his roots are growing out, too— the brown is going to be longer than the pink. It hasn’t been like that for many years. 

“Why are you here?” Techno asks. 

He can imagine Wilbur’s smile when he says, voice cracked,  _ we’re twins. _

“Go talk to dad,” Techno says, stomach twisting, “Or Tommy.”

Wilbur’s presence doesn’t shift.  _ They don’t talk to me. _

“Serves you right.”

_ Only you talk to me,  _ Wilbur whispers.  _ I am lonely. _

Bluntly: “Maybe there’s a reason for that.” 

_ I would go to them,  _ Wilbur says, after a moment.  _ But it hurts being far from you. _

Techno’s gaze hardens. 

Wilbur, his twin brother, who Techno has always taken such pains to travel apart from. Changing everything about himself— his stance, his shape, his looks, his life. It’s only fitting that in life they are apart, while in death they are together. 

“So?” Techno says. “I think you can deal with a little pain.”

_ Ouch. _

“Stop that.”

_ It’s too far,  _ Wilbur says.  _ Cold. _

Techno, finally, sweeps all of his pink hair into a neat pile, and tosses it into his disposal system. The smell of burning hair dissipates after a few moments, and Techno takes that time to tug on the strands of it. 

Wilbur used to cut his hair. 

Luckily, Techno can do that on his own now.

Wilbur sighs.  _ Talk to me.  _

Techno moves out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. His recently built house, so far out in the north that it takes half a day of travelling nonstop to make it to any form of civilization, is beautiful and lonely. No one comes to bother him. Here, Techno can exist in peace.

A form of retirement. He nearly wants to laugh at himself. How far he’s come. 

_ Please,  _ Wilbur begs, and his hands frame Techno’s face. He’s much touchier in the afterlife. Techno isn’t quite sure why.  _ I can’t be alone, I need someone to talk to. The rest of them don’t look at me. You are all I have.  _

He’s desperate. And cold. And he turns on the lights for Techno, every morning, even when the sun has already risen. He warms the entire house, even though it leaves him shivering. 

Go away, Techno wants to scream. Let me mourn in peace. Let me grieve the brother I lost.

Wilbur’s ghost, lonely and clingy and desperate, stays regardless.

* * *

It is a Sunday afternoon and Techno finds himself, absurdly, in the middle of the southern winter wastelands. It takes two and a half days of travel in the overworld, one day by nether. Phil, the hardworking soldier of the world, has built a highway that spans thousands of meters. That’s the road Techno takes, feet against smooth cobble, until he comes to a home. 

He and his father have built their houses as far away from each other as possible, without meaning to. They are stuck in a constant state of turmoil, pushing back and forth, because Techno cannot forgive him for murdering his second half, and Phil will never apologize for doing what was right. Tommy remains their only point of connection. 

Techno wraps his cloak tighter around himself, and, cursing his terrible life, knocks twice. The pine door is sturdy beneath his fingertips. 

He prays that Phil isn’t home.

As usual, his luck is rotten. His father opens the door barely ten seconds after Techno knocks. 

“Technoblade,” he says, sounding surprised. The sound of it twists his heart. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I can leave,” Techno says. 

“No,” Phil says, fumbling, “Come inside.”

Wilbur hovers by Techno’s side.  _ You were always dad’s favorite. _

“Shut up,” Techno mumbles, and tries to block out the words.

_ He always liked you better. _

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

He can’t see Wilbur, but he imagines his brother’s face. For a moment, he catches a wisp of yellow, brown, the barest shade of red, before it vanishes. The air is empty once more.

“Techno?”

Techno turns, and Phil’s frowning at him curiously. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one,” Techno says, and ignores Wilbur’s laugh, curling and viscous, seeping its way into his head. 

“It’s been a long time,” Phil comments quietly, and shuts the door behind him. “I thought—” He pauses, flips the latch— “I thought you weren’t going to visit.”

“I live far away.” 

“Somewhere cold, I can tell” Phil nods. He glances at Techno again. “Did you want to take off your cloak?”

Techno pulls it around himself. He’s always cold, with Wilbur this close. Even the oppressive warmth of his father’s house isn’t enough to warm him.

“I’m fine,” he says. 

Phil nods, something in his gaze piercing. He has always been too observant for his own good. 

“How did you know where I live?” Phil asks, either genuinely curious or just looking for a way to break the silence. 

“Tommy,” Techno says. 

Phil nods. He looks tense. “I was under the impression that the two of you weren’t on speaking terms.” 

“We’re not,” Techno says.

Tommy has only talked to him when returning some items to Techno’s previous underground base, back when Techno still hadn’t seen the light of the sun in several days. He had deposited a small chest, and inside were some of Wilbur’s things. A brown trenchcoat, stained and dusted with gunpowder, smelling of smoke. Black gloves, made for gripping onto rock. 

“He told me where you lived just in case,” Techno says. It was in a letter, left behind in the chest. “In case I needed to visit.”

Father and oldest son stand eye to eye. Techno is taller than him. It’s strange. 

“You’re always welcome,” Phil says, an odd gleam in his eyes. They’re watery. 

“Thanks,” Techno says. “At least I have one family member left.”

He tries for a joking tone, but it doesn’t succeed. 

Phil sucks in a breath. “Have you talked to Tommy at all recently?” 

“He hates me,” Techno says, which is the truth, and then he lies, “I’m fine with it. He needs someone to blame.”

Wilbur is dead, Schlatt is dead, Dream is absent. All the demons in Tommy’s nightmares are gone, and so he turns to the only other person he can blame. 

“He’ll get better,” Phil says, although he sounds doubtful. “He’ll come back. I’m sure of it.”

From this, Techno gathers that Phil and Tommy have not talked recently either.

“And how are you?” Phil says, a valiant attempt at diffusing the mood. 

There are a million possible answers to say, and the one Techno lands on is, “It’s been quiet and lonely on my own.”

“Do you want to stay the night, then?” Phil offers. An olive branch in return for months of silence. 

Techno looks outside, at the southern wastelands. 

He isn’t sure why he’s come to his dad, of all things. Maybe out of a misguided sense of devotion. Maybe out of loneliness. Maybe because Wilbur deserves to see his dad, doesn’t he?

“Okay,” Techno says. “Only for the night.” 

* * *

He wakes up a week later with his head foggy. 

Techno rolls over and presses his face into the thin mattress, back at his home in the north. The vacation with his dad had only been able to consume so much of his time. Now, he can feel every bump of the stone floor beneath his cheek. A headache stabs at his temples, angry and pulsing. This happens, every so often. Winter makes his mood worsen, and his physical health goes with it as well. 

When he finally musters the ability to push himself out of bed, he finds curiously that all the lights in his house are off, though he’s sure he fell asleep with them on. The curtains are pulled closed. There’s a cup of tea on the table with two aspirin beside it. It’s steaming hot. 

Techno’s eyes sting, and he turns away. 

They say that twins can feel the same pain that the other one experiences. Techno would swear on his life that he can still feel, directly in his stomach, where the sword hit his brother. He presses his hands to it and his hands come away clean from blood. He almost expects them to be red.

_ Good morning,  _ Wilbur says. 

__ Techno jerks his hand away from his stomach. A wisp of cold air passes by his neck, the ghostly touch of a hand. The tea sits on the table, steam rising from it. It smells like jasmine. Wilbur’s favorite.

He swallows down every piece of revulsion in his throat and asks, to the open air, “Did you make this for me?”

His twin fizzles into existence.

He’s floating, just slightly, and it looks like he’s jumped on tiptoes, suspended in motion. His fingers are dissolving at the edges into mist. Techno can see right through him, dark and smokey. Shadows lie under his eyes; he looks uncertain, young, childlike. 

_ For you,  _ Wilbur says, and he tries to put a hand on the chair, but it falls right through.  _ You looked tired. _

A strand of hair falls around Techno’s face, and he tucks it behind his ear.

That’s when he realizes— Wilbur’s hair will never grow long again. 

_ Techno?  _ Wilbur says uncertainly.  _ Are you okay? _

His chest jumps, diaphragm contracting without air. 

“I’m fine,” Techno mumbles, finally managing to fill his lungs again. His heart races. He crosses the room firmly in a few strides. Even though the winter chill permeates the air, the tea hasn’t lost any heat. Wilbur’s hands cup Techno’s around the mug, but no heat comes from those

Techno glares at it. “I don’t need your help.”

He drinks the tea regardless. It’s sweet with no milk. Just the way he and Wilbur both like it. 

Techno looks up from the mug and Wilbur has vanished, though his hands remain. 

_ I’ll still help you,  _ Wilbur says.

“I wish you would stop,” Techno says.

_ I won’t. _

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

_ You are my friend.  _

“I’m your brother,” Techno says, and automatically corrects himself. “ _ Was.  _ I was your brother.” 

_ Still are. _

“Show yourself, then,” Techno challenges. “Why do you keep hiding?”

Wilbur’s voice is sorrowful.  _ Can’t. _

“Why?”

Quietly:  _ Hurts.  _ There’s a breathless pause, and then Wilbur says,  _ I am hurting.  _

The jasmine tea shivers in Techno’s grasp. His headache only grows worse.

His twin brother is in pain. He’s hurting so terribly. His brother, who has always been so close to him, longing so desperately to be a part of the world. Yet the most he can do is manipulate things every so often: flipping pages in books, making tea, turning the lights off.

“It hurts when you do things in the real world,” Techno says numbly, and Wilbur confirms it.

Techno takes a moment to digest this information. “Why, then? I’m fine without you. I don’t need your help.” 

Wilbur doesn’t respond.

All he says is, with a voice full of sadness and shame,  _ I liked your long hair. I wish you didn’t cut it.  _

Wilbur’s fingers, plaiting it. Combing through it, diving into the lake together. Soft and gentle and—

_ You look more like me, now. _

Techno grits his teeth. “I hate you.” 

_ Why? _

“They all hate you,” Techno says firmly, and he doesn’t know whether he’s speaking to himself or to his twin. “You destroyed more than just the country.”

Wilbur sounds genuinely confused.  _ What country? What did I do? _

“You destroyed us,” Techno says. He thinks about Phi’s smile, Tommy’s ruffled hair. The way Tommy’s posture is so bad now that he feels shorter, like he’s trying to curl in on himself, like he’s trying to disappear. 

_ How? _

“It doesn’t matter,” Techno says, and the anger drains out of him as quickly as it had arrived. “There’s no point. It’s in the past. It’s gone.”

Wilbur says,  _ are you trying to convince me or yourself? _

His headache pounds at his temples.

“You know,” Techno says, refusing to listen, “I thought the afterlife would mellow you out some more.” 

There’s no response.

“I hate you,” Techno says again. 

For a terrifying, bizarre moment, he wonders if he’s going insane. 

Then he feels a pair of fingers gently tilt his chin up, and someone invisible presses their lips to his forehead. 

_ I am here,  _ Wilbur whispers.  _ With you.  _

Techno wants to scream. 

* * *

“Phil,” he says, arriving on horseback at sunhigh, “I’m being haunted.”

Phil is busy building. It takes him a while to store everything away, to climb precariously down the scaffolding, and to land by Techno’s feet. He still walks a little strangely, like there’s a weight on his back that no longer exists. He’s not quite as graceful as he used to be without his wings. 

“Haunted,” Phil says, sounding quite disbelieving. “By who?”

Techno knows that he’ll sound insane, but he says it anyway.

“By Wilbur,” he says, as plainly as possible. “Wilbur’s haunting me.” 

Phil goes tense. 

“Wilbur’s dead.” 

“I know,” Techno snaps, pent up and stressed and so scared, “I know he’s dead, I know. But his ghost follows me.”

“His ghost,” Phil repeats dubiously. 

“I know I sound crazy,” Techno says, and he knows he must look it too— sleepless, rough from travel, hair choppy and messy and grown out. He’s not as nimble as Wilbur ever was— built for violence, broad and low, like a wall, while Wilbur was built for music, bright and sunny. “I know, but I promise. He’s there.”

Wilbur is the one subject that Techno and Phil never discuss. The one topic that has never been breached. 

Phil brings Techno up to the second floor of the house he just built, though it’s drafty, and sets about making a cup of tea for them. He puts in a tea bag of jasmine. 

Techno stiffens. The smell of jasmine tea has become a waking nightmare. 

“Here,” Phil says, and passes him a teacup that scalds his palms. “It’s hot.”

“I know,” Techno says, and takes a sip anyway. 

His eyes glance around the room for a second, and he freezes.

For a split second, Wilbur sits directly across the table from him.

He looks… 

He looks entirely corporeal. 

He even has his own cup of tea, a ghostly version. He’s wearing a yellow sweater, worn down and threadbare. His hair is rumpled, sticking out from beneath his beanie. His eyes have the same sad bags under them that Techno recognizes from when he was alive. His sweater is stained dark red, ripped and torn around his stomach. 

He only appears for a millisecond, barely there, but more vivid than he’s ever been before. He’s burned into Techno’s mind like a scar. 

“Techno!” Phil says, alarmed, and the mug falls from his hands and shatters.

“Sorry,” Techno gasps, and he tears his eyes away from the empty chair. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Phil says, and his hands close around Techno’s, crouched under the table, fumbling for the shards of the teacup. Jasmine tea soaks into both their knees. “Techno, stop. Let me do it.”

“I don’t mind, really—”

“Techno,” Phil says sharply, “Stop.”

His hands are so alive and vivid and warm. Nothing like the cool touch of Wilbur. His twin sucks all the warmth for himself.

“What happened?” Phil murmurs, when everything is cleaned up. “Are you okay?”

“I saw him,” he says, when he remembers how to breathe again. “Wilbur.”

“He’s here,” Phil says, not a question. 

Two hands, placed on his shoulders. A twin protecting his counterpart. Phil glances around the room, as if he can see him too. 

“I wish he wasn’t,” Techno admits, and the hands on his shoulders pull away. “I wish…” 

He trails off, not sure what he was going to say.

Phil swallows, silent and thinking, and finally he says, “Can I see him?”

For once, his voice ticks up. It’s a tone Techno hasn’t heard on him in a long while. Not since… well, since four golden crowns, purple confetti, smiles broad enough to split faces.

Techno, mutely, nods. 

Wilbur, as if reading his mind, flickers into existence. The same as before. This time, Techno takes every glorious second to see him, commit his face into memory. There are no portraits made of a tyrant— Techno has nothing to remember him by but childhood photos. 

“There,” Techno says.

“Where?”

“The chair,” Techno says, and points, “He’s sitting right there, across from you.”

Phil’s eyes remain unfocused. “Where?”

Techno’s expression falters. “You can’t see him?” 

Phil shakes his head. “There’s nothing there.”

Wilbur’s eyes flick between Techno and Phil, and then he, too, flicks out of existence.

“You can’t see him,” Techno says, and things are a lot more clear. No wonder Wilbur has been so, so lonely. “I didn’t realize.”

“You’re absolutely mad,” Phil mutters, and he squeezes his eyes shut, as if hoping to stop any tears from escaping. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

A breeze blows past the both of them. Phil frowns. Goosebumps rise on his neck, his arms, even though he’s inside Phil’s cozy kitchen, and the fire is burning so bright it sears into Techno’s eyes. He reaches for his traveller’s cloak and tugs it around himself tighter.

Phil swallows, laces his fingers together, forces the disappointment down. “So Wilbur is haunting you.”

Wordlessly, Techno nods.

“And no one else can see him.”

He nods again. 

“And you want to get rid of him?”

_ No,  _ Wilbur gasps, a flash of red, yellow, brown. 

“Yes,” Techno says firmly. 

Phil looks at him faintly. “Why?”

Techno doesn’t understand. “Because I want him gone.”

“I would do  _ anything  _ to talk to Wil again,” Phil says hoarsely, and the crux of the problem is right there. “And Tommy would give up everything he owns, both his music discs in a heartbeat, just to see his face. You just want him gone?” 

“He’s haunting me,” Techno says, and it spills from him, “I can’t breathe, I can’t walk, I can’t move without him, he’s always there.”

How is he supposed to move on?

Wilbur pleads into his ear, talking about how he’s sorry, he’ll leave, he’ll give him a break. He can handle being on his own, he promises, he’ll do better. Techno can’t get rid of him, even if neither of them know how, but he can’t, he just can’t.  _ Keep me with you, please, don’t let me go.  _

“Maybe—” Phil starts, stops again, “Maybe if you just talk to him?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“There must be something.”

Techno shakes his head numbly. “He talks. And I listen. But I have nothing more to say.” 

He can tell that Phil is trying his best to believe him, and is doing his best to help the only son who will talk to him left. “Maybe he has unfinished business?”

“Unfinished business,” Techno repeats.

Phil nods, and his expression turns guarded, dangerous. Carefully, like he’s avoiding the actual topic, he says, “He died… he died without a conclusion. Maybe that’s what he needs, in order to move on.”

Wilbur has stopped talking into Techno’s ears. Instead, he makes his presence known in the way only Techno can tell. A breath of wind, coming from a closed window. The fire dimming, just slightly. Techno’s new cup of tea goes cold in the moments between lifting it from the table and it reaching his lips. 

Techno isn’t sure what to say, or do. But Phil’s voice is gentle and soft, and Techno suspects he knows more than he lets on about personal ghosts. Wilbur paces around the room, upset and in pain and sticking to the only person he has left, and Techno drinks his cold jasmine tea and tries his best to remember what it feels like to have a family.

* * *

Techno returns to his base a day later, head hung in exhaustion from the fast travel. He guides his horse into the stable, flips the latch behind him. The lights are already on inside his home. The snow is falling thickly outside, frosting over the windows. 

_ Brother,  _ Wilbur says, and flickers into vision. 

He is sitting on the end of Techno’s bed cross-legged, leaning over with his chin in his hands. His entire front isn’t bloody anymore, though. He looks alive, untouched, and in the next moment, he disappears.

“Hi,” Techno says, and reaches out to where Wilbur was— is— sitting. 

Fingers intertwine with his own. He knows what Wilbur’s hands look like— they’re just like his own. Minus some scrapes and bruises and one curved scar, smaller than a fingernail. They have the same freckle, right at the base of their right pinky fingers. 

_ I love you,  _ Wilbur says with certainty.  _ Even if you want to get rid of me.  _

Techno’s eyes burn. 

“I miss you,” he says. 

_ I’m here. _

Techno shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

_ How can I make you miss me less? _

The tears spill, unwilling and unwanted. “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do.”

_ Please don’t cry. _

“I wish I wasn’t.”

Carefully, the soft fabric of Wilbur’s sleeve brushes over his cheeks. Unbidden, Techno leans into his hand. If he closes his eyes just enough, it’s like nothing has changed.

But he opens his eyes, and he is in a spruce house in the snow instead of a sequestered ravine below the ground. He is alive and Wilbur is dead. 

They sit there, mirroring each other, for a long, long time.

Finally, Techno breathes, “You were a terrible brother.”

Wilbur doesn’t say anything, but Techno can still feel the way Wilbur’s thumb traces circles around the back of his hand. 

“I wish you hadn’t been so stupid,” Techno says, and his throat threatens to close. “I think people would have forgiven you if you had just been better. But they never will now.”

_ I don’t even remember what happened,  _ Wilbur says. A note of frustration worms its way into his voice.  _ No one tells me. No one sees me.  _

“I see you.”

_ You don’t,  _ Wilbur says.  _ You wish I wasn’t here. _

“You know what you did was wrong,” Techno says. “Don’t you want to move on? Why do you want to remember?”

_ So I can fix it,  _ Wilbur says, although it takes him a long time to respond.  _ So they will talk to me.  _

Techno thinks about what Phil told him— about him willing to do anything to talk to Wilbur again, being convinced that Tommy would give up everything he loves to see him. Techno thinks about the chest full of Wilbur’s old items that he delivered, the coat and the gloves that take up precious space in his ender chest. 

If everything changed, if everything reversed— could they still be a family again? Would they still be together?

Or was everything in their lives always on a collision course, doomed to end in their separation?

“I don’t think they will ever talk to you,” Techno admits, and the words burn. “I think it would only hurt them more.

Wilbur’s ghost doesn’t respond.

“Wil?” Techno asks, into the empty air. “Are you still here?”

_ They hate me,  _ Wilbur says, a question.

“I think so,” Techno says. “But you’re gone for them. So maybe not forever.”

Wilbur’s voice is very small.  _ And would it be easier if I were gone, too? For you? _

“I don’t know,” Techno says, which is a lie. 

Silence falls between the brothers. Techno makes sure his breathing is even and steady and eventually, the tears stop falling from his eyes. He rubs at them and stares at the far wall. 

After a long, long moment, Wilbur says tentatively,  _ will you write me a book? _

Techno turns. “A book?”

_ To remember me when I go,  _ Wilbur breathes.  _ About anything.  _

“Anything,” Techno repeats. “A story from me?” 

Wilbur’s hands slip from Techno’s. Although Techno can’t see him, he can feel when Wilbur gets up from the bed,. and can sense where he moves around the room. He rattles an inkpot on the table, and a feathered quill. He passes over Techno’s immaculately organized bookshelves and finally stops. 

_ A story about me,  _ Wilbur says eventually.  _ Please. _

Wordlessly, Techno retrieves a book and quill. He uncaps the inkpot, poises it over the paper. 

“Okay,” he says, voice wet and choked. “Tell me everything.”

Wilbur talks out loud, and his words are quiet. 

He talks about the smell of fresh bread, the warmth inside the bakery. The flash of a woman’s smile whose name Wilbur doesn’t remember. He talks about wooden swords, nicked and smoothed over again, clacking against one another in a childish fight. The flash of Techno’s hair in the sun, underneath a blue winter sky. Bandaids taped over a wound, one on his shoulder, one on his knee. The weight of Techno’s head on his shoulder, as children. He talks about the sound of the wind in his hair and the glint of a diamond sword, clutched in someone’s hand. Was it used to hurt him? Wilbur doesn’t know. 

The taste of salt, air in his lungs, the smell of smoke in the wind. The clangs from Techno’s armory in a dark ravine lit with lantern light. The red of his brother’s shirt, the blond of his hair. The sound of Tommy’s laugh, ringing out in the darkness. A toothy smile that never faltered, even in times of stress. Books, tunnels, arrows. Phil’s arms, warm around him. 

The feeling of their family of four, curled by a fire together, while the snow spirals down outside.

“Is that all?” Techno says at one point, late into the night. “Or is there more?”

_ More,  _ Wilbur says, nearly inaudible.  _ Always more.  _

Techno writes his twin’s memories until his hands are covered in ink. 

He writes until Wilbur has faded away entirely. 

* * *

_ What I Remember: by Wilbur Soot and Technoblade.  _

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this while listening to night changes by 1d on repeat for 4 hours lmao. if you enjoyed, please leave kudos or comments! they really make my day <3


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